“So…”
“I messed up.”
“I know you did.”
“Will you forgive me?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“What do you mean, ‘probably’?”
“I just haven’t decided yet, I guess.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure how to respond to that.”
“Here’s an idea: fix things first, then ask again afterwards.”
Tough
Love
Christmas
Can you see the word picture?
This story was based on the prompt “messed up” on TypeTrigger.
Rudolf hopped on one foot, pirouetted, leapt to and fro, wiggled his hips, do-si-doed, executed a graceful plie, moonwalked, discoed, waltzed, two-stepped, wriggled like a worm, jigged like a hillbilly, and slapped his knees, but no matter what he did, it kept snowing.
Apparently he wasn’t a raindeer after all.
There was a man at the corner with one third of a hat and half a pair of shoes. I offered him my boots. He sold them to a homeless guy for ten bucks and gave the money to a woman at a bus stop.
I really liked those boots…
Alternate Version:
He stood there on the corner, with tattered hat and coat. His backpack overflowed with toys that he was handing out.
His shoes were only halfers: they covered just his heels. I offered mine, but he declined, ungrateful little eel.
He made me feel guilty, and guilt is not genteel.
This story, and the supplementary poem, were inspired by a title suggested by @hexapodium.
On the thirteenth day of Christmas, her true love gave her thirteen feral children.
He intended to adopt them into a loving, nurturing home, but having been raised from infancy by lions, they were just too far gone.
She ended up with five drummers, two ladies, and a turtle dove.
After being married for thirty years he thought he’d pretty much figured her out, but when she came home with a baby crocodile for Christmas he realized she was as beautifully, wonderfully mysterious to him now as she always had been, which wasn’t much consolation when it ate the dog.
‘Twas the night before Christmas
And throughout the ‘net
The blogs and webcomics
Tried not to forget
To mention the season
And wish readers well
As if missing Christmas
Would be their death knell
And this lowly website
To follow the herd
Adhered to the pattern
In just fifty words